


Nothing But Serenity

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clock reads 11:11, and he vaguely recalls a stupid Earth tradition. Make a wish on 11:11… though he’s pretty sure it only applies at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing But Serenity

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first RvB fanfic, so if you have any comments and/or concerns, please let me know! It was also un-beta'd, so any mistakes are my own, and please feel free to point those out too.

How Grif wakes up is so much different from how he fell asleep—that much is for sure. He can’t even remember falling into bed the night before, or if it even _was_ night when he got there. There’s daylight streaming in from two different sides, so he assumes that it was late morning, at best. A quick look around the room with one eye barely pried open reassured him after some doubt that yes, this was his room… despite the foreign feeling in his heart.

It’s probably because he never sees it at this time. He’s either napping through it in bed or napping through it somewhere else.

When movement stirs next to him, he tilts his head to look down—spotting the clock reading 11:02 A.M. at the same time—and blinks. A pile of red hair is slowly disentangling itself from under his arm, revealing a yawning Simmons. He rubs his face once, twice, three times before smiling at Grif and muttering something that sounds like “Hey.”

Does Simmons always sleep this late? Maybe he just doesn’t notice because of previously said nap time interference.

“Hey,” Grif’s voice feels automatic; as if this is a morning ritual. “nice hair, dude. Were you spinning on your head last night?” The only response is a small huff and Simmons moves to get out of bed, the white blanket falling down into his lap before Grif grabs his arm. The sudden need for Simmons’ presence isn’t something he can pinpoint; all he knows is that he wants to keep this moment going.

“Wait—why don’t we just hang out here for a few minutes?” he’s scrambling for an answer, and he feels like he shouldn’t be. This is _their_ house. Their bedroom, with large arched windows that allow for maximum sunlight cuddling, especially in their huge bed. And did he notice how white everything was before? It’s… peaceful.

And yet, a part of him knows how fragile it is.

Simmons raises an eyebrow and leans back against the mountain of white, fluffy pillows. Grif would rather spoon him again, or something just as lame and romantic, but he accepts that. “Just a few minutes, but then I have to get ready. It’s late enough as it is.”

He’s indicating the clock with a thumb. 11:05. Grif readjusts himself in the bed so that he’s sitting next to Simmons, nudging him with his shoulders. Far in the distance, probably on the other side of the city, he can hear what sounds like fireworks going off. No big deal.

Grif wants to ignore the fact that fireworks aren’t used in the day.

“Jesus, why is it so bright out?” he’s searching for things to say, and the supernatural shine from the windows is what he comes up with. “Do you think the sun will go out if I clap twice?”

There’s no answer from Simmons, so maybe it isn’t a good topic after all. When Grif tears his eyes from the light, Simmons is settling down further into the bed, leaning his back against Grif’s shoulder and sighing. When did his shirt get so fucking _bright?_ It’s almost painful to look at, now that the bed is glowing too. It’d be romantic if it wasn’t scaring him.

“Hey, Grif?”

It’s the start of a conversation that’s played out many times. It’s normal. Easy. Then why is it suddenly so hard to answer, when he sneaks a look at the clock again. 11:08. His response should be—

“What?”

No, that’s not right. It’s too late to take it back and replace it with the right word—he isn’t sure why something so casual is so breakable, but it is. Simmons doesn’t look like he’s bothered, but the fireworks have gotten louder and their shared bedroom is getting warmer. He grasps onto anything to keep himself focused, and realises that Tucker would have enjoyed that thought about warm bedrooms.

“Do you ever wonder why we’re—“

“Nope,” he replies.

At his answer, Simmons raises his eyebrow at him again. The conversation is reversed, but he still knew what the answer was meant to be.

He doesn’t want to know why he’s here. He just wants to _stay_. The more he looks into this place, the more he slips out of it. His left arm snakes around Simmons’ side and tugs him closer before leaning over to press his forehead to his. “I’m here because of something. I don’t give a crap about why.”

The response he gets is at 11:10. Simmons lets out a long breath, as if he’d been holding back something this entire time. Grif has the feeling that it isn’t by choice.

“You’re here because you don’t want to be there,” he says as a calloused hand trails down the side of Grif’s face, momentarily blocking out the disturbing view of cracks growing across the windows in Grif’s peripheral vision. “but you don’t belong here.”

The answer hurts more than anything else he’s ever felt. Grif wants to belong here, with Simmons. His skin is warm and it feels nice to hold him in such a peaceful looking place. He knows their life and history here is as good as it gets. But hearing it from him hurts, even if this is just some fake world created to ease Grif’s suffering. It’s a world where he knows how Simmons feels and a world where they’re both safe, despite the ruckus approaching from outside. It feels as if the fireworks going off above their roof are bouncing around in his skull now, and he has to squint to focus on Simmons’ face. When he opens his mouth to say something, anything, even to voice his first _I love you, don’t make me go_ , the windows explode into a haze of pale glass.

The clock reads 11:11, and he vaguely recalls a stupid Earth tradition. Make a wish on 11:11… though he’s pretty sure it only applies at night. With his remaining energy, he presses his face to Simmons’ and whispers his wish against his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Grif!_ Fuck, wake _up!_ ”

The white room is gone, replaced by a battlefield. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he knows it’s out there—the bullets whizzing by overhead give it away. The gentle and loving voice Simmons’ had been using before is gone, replaced by one that sounds panicked and angry. With as much energy as he can muster, Grif forces his eyes open and groans immediately.

It’s bright, but not the same bright as the bedroom. But it’s loud, and there are explosions rocking the earth from a small distance. With another groan, he covers his face with his gloves, only to have them immediately pried off.

“You have to get up, asshole. I’m not going to carry you!” Grif wants to retort and say that yes, Simmons has to carry him, but instead he just rolls to his feet, ignoring a wave of nausea as he does so. If there’s a trickle of blood spilling from his mouth, he ignores that too.

He wants to know why Simmons didn’t just leave him. He wanted to be left there—the fake memory of Simmons was one of the happiest he’s ever had, and it was even spent in confusion and desperation. He wants to go back to it, and if this Simmons—the real Simmons, _his_ Simmons—were to just let him go, he could find his way back. He’d go back to the Simmons’ who slept in late with him, with their bright home and a lack of dying soldiers in the distant view. He didn’t get to see that part, but he knew that if he had gotten the chance to look out of the windows before they blew, he’d have seen nothing but serenity.

But the words fizzle out when he finally sees Simmons’ face. Covered in blood and dirt, he can see gentle relief in his eyes, especially when a maroon glove moves over his eyes to wipe mud (or perhaps it was blood, hopefully from a badass kill from one _very_ nimble Captain Grif) off of his face. A real expression, directed at him and nobody else; the very face he should have dreamed about.

Dexter Grif realises at this moment that no fantasy could ever overturn a moment like this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I write something so depressing and angsty. Why. Why did I watch a comedy and think "Yes. Yes this is definitely something that needs this REALLY WEIRD AND SAD FIC."
> 
> Also, I'm not sure how to rate this! It's not too graphic in my opinion, but it's yours that matters! So I'm sorry if I didn't add something you thought I should have.


End file.
